


Melius Tarde Quam Numquam

by brevitas



Series: Leader of the Muses [9]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Greek Gods AU, M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 03:46:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brevitas/pseuds/brevitas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is a reconciliation, a revolution, a deal struck and a death.</p>
<p>Or where Grantaire sacrifices everything to protect Enjolras and he tries to repay the favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Melius Tarde Quam Numquam

The protest is scheduled for tomorrow, and Enjolras has sent everyone home to get some sleep. He and the Amis retire to their respective hotel rooms and Enjolras sits on the window sill, stretches his legs. He's heard nothing from Grantaire since that morning and wonders where he'd gone; but he recognizes it as pointless to ask, and spends a few hours with Combeferre going over their plan to distract himself.

Eventually he tells Combeferre they should both try to sleep and bades him a good night before heading to his own room. He'd left the lights off so he doesn't notice he has company until he's shed his jacket and flicked the lights on.

"Evening," Grantaire says, and Enjolras starts, turning quickly around to face him. He's grinning and dappled with paint and for a second all Enjolras does is stare at him, surprised that he's even here--and just when Grantaire is getting anxious and thinking maybe he should have stayed away a bit longer Enjolras moves.

He crosses the narrow room in a few strides and takes Grantaire's face in his hands, kisses him so fiercely that Grantaire sags. He explores every inch of Grantaire's mouth, revels in the taste of booze and cigarettes, and swears to himself that he will not let this go again. When they break apart they're both breathless, and Grantaire is smirking.

"Missed you too," he says, acting bold, but truthfully he's so relieved his hands are trembling. He sits on the window sill and Enjolras sits opposite him, perched on his bed.

"Are you marching with us tomorrow?" Enjolras asks, trying to be careful so as not to scare him away again but he needn't worry; Grantaire merely shakes his head and leans his weight back on an open palm.

"Nah." Before Enjolras can say anything Grantaire adds, "I'll be there, just on the roofs."

Enjolras lifts an eyebrow and Grantaire laughs. "I warned you about their weapons and you chose not to heed me; that, however, does nothing to dissuade snipers, and if they figure out that you're the heart of the revolution it'll be you they're gunning for."

Enjolras might actually be impressed--he hadn't thought of anybody in the surrounding buildings, and had only given some care to watching for landmines and the like via Feuilly's suggestion. "Thank you, Grantaire," he praises. "I never would have thought of that."

Grantaire leisurely waves a hand like 'it's nothing' but he's practically glowing, and Enjolras tries not to look too obviously pleased (it's only that it's been so long since Grantaire has smiled like he is tonight, all genuine amusement rather than cruel cycnicism, and Enjolras has missed it).

"You'll come and find me afterward?" He asks and Grantaire grins as he pushes himself to his feet.

"Of course." He takes the single step necessary to be in front of Enjolras and then hesitates, stares down at him with a silent question behind the wariness of his flattened mouth; Enjolras smiles when he lifts his chin and permits it.

They kiss for a few minutes and when Grantaire exits Enjolras leaves the window open. He sleeps surprisingly well that night, and dreams of the painter and his unbelievably blue eyes.

+++++

The march is underway by six, and the policemen are out thirty minutes later. No one is being aggressive but there's an undercurrent to both groups that feels dangerous; Enjolras has the Amis check in with him every five minutes and reminds them to keep their wits. At ten past seven Grantaire breathlessly tells him, _One down, Apollo_ , and that is how Enjolras knows things are going to soon become vicious.

The first shot is an accident (and isn't it always?). It kills an eight-year-old not two feet from Courfeyrac and the crowd responds savagely, with a single-minded intensity--three men drag a policeman to the ground to beat him and the cops authorize deadly force as they try to free their comrade.

"Don't get shot!" Joly shouts, and magnifies his voice just enough that they all hear it. Enjolras grimly nods; they may be gods, but down in the mortal realm they are far more susceptible to damage. Theoretically Joly could patch them up but he's not a miracle worker; too many bullets, too much blood loss, and not even the god of healing would be able to put them back together.

Enjolras is helping Jehan herd the children together into the heart of the crowd, where they will be less likely to get hurt, when a bullet tears through his left knee. It surprises him more than it hurts; he loses his footing and falls gracelessly before the pain even kicks in.

When it does it feels like he's been branded and he gasps, sucks in a breath and tries to stand. His leg protests and he manages two more steps before it gives out under his weight, felling him again. Combeferre sees him on the ground and veers towards him but Enjolras waves him off, gestures towards the Mogamma and mouths 'Grantaire'. He'd told the Amis about him the night before and although Combeferre frowns he nods; he understands that he's to focus on the revolution, not Enjolras, and feels reassured that Grantaire will take care of him as soon as he hears.

"Dionysus," he hisses, and sees a black head pop up a few buildings over. He knows the second Grantaire sees him because he hears a startled, _Apollo_ , but he's looking away now--a shadow has fallen across him and when he looks up it's a policeman, fresh out of the academy and barely bearded, waving a gun around and yelling something in Arabic. The din of the crowd makes it impossible for Enjolras to understand him; he starts to make a gesture to wait when the man's gun goes off.

It's almost slow-motion, this close to the muzzle--he sees the flash and expects immense pain, considering the distance, but it's intercepted. He blinks and suddenly there's Grantaire, head thrown back by the force of the bullet, hair knocked askew. He's taken it in the throat and it pours blood, but before Enjolras can even wrap his head around all that carnage the policeman panics.

To be fair, it's understandable. A young man had just literally appeared in front of him, and he probably hadn't even known he'd fired his gun. He lifts the pistol purposefully now and fires four more times before Enjolras can reach out and when he does he grabs his ankle so tightly he breaks it; the man falls and Enjolras kills him with barely a thought. There is great power in the gods and it's only enhanced when they're angry, and the man is reduced to a smear of red in the gutter before he can scream.

He moves to Grantaire, slouching against the building behind him with his knees about to give out; he lands flat on his ass when they do with a pained grunt. Enjolras is dragging his wounded leg behind him and reaches Grantaire at the same second that he bellows, "Asclepius!"

Joly knows that he would not be called like that unless he was needed, and he's there in a second. The crowd has moved on, leaving behind the unconscious and injured (and Enjolras is grateful; explaining the spontaneous explosion of a cop would not be easy), and no one sees Joly's sudden appearance. He drops to Grantaire's side and tears his shirt down the middle to get at the trauma; Grantaire grouses something that sounds like, "That's my favorite shirt."

Joly hisses when he sees the bullet wounds. The four punctures are surprisingly neat, blood welling from the ruptures and oozing color down his stomach, but they're deceptively clean. Grantaire's breathing is shallow and his eyes glassy and Enjolras is holding one of his hands tightly enough to cut off the circulation. He squeezes back spastically, when his eyes flutter open and he remembers to, but he's already drifting.

Joly's warm hands are at his stomach, trying vainly to patch him back together, but he says distractedly, "I can't do this here," within the minute.

"Grab whoever you need and go up to Olympus," Enjolras responds, his voice flat. Joly looks worriedly at him and with his free hand repairs his knee as best he can in only a minute; he's fixed it enough to last a few hours and that's it, and he tells Enjolras as much. Coolly, the blonde nods--Grantaire is unconscious now, and doesn't see how Enjolras brushes his dark hair back from his forehead and leaves a lingering kiss.

"I'll bring the rest of the boys up when I've finished."

Joly purposefully leaves Bahorel, and tells him to move closer to Enjolras; he leaves Combeferre too, and whispers in his ear that Apollo might become reckless, with all this blood spilt. Jehan is useless, sick with worry, so it's him, Bossuet, and Joly who take Grantaire home.

While they lay him out of the kitchen table and Jehan blanches to see all that blood that he's losing in Egypt Enjolras leads a revolution. He's ruthless now; he incapacitates any police officers that dare fuck with the people, his people, and he tells his brothers to do the same. Humans are surprisingly fragile, he thinks--a well-placed blow can shatter a link in the spine, or curl a rib inward to pierce an unsuspecting organ. He leaves in his trail such destruction that the world will speak of his revolution for centuries, will come to refer to it as the bloodiest march anyone has ever seen.

Enjolras leads the people to the Mogamma and they chant for their government to listen and they do. Nobody would ignore a crowd such as this, dangerous and bloodied and hardened with fear rather than weak with it, carrying wounded children and friends and screaming for justice. Enjolras leaves only when the doors open and a peace talk is starting (he sends his mortal lieutenant in his place and tells him not to speak Enjolras' name--the man understands and thanks him without question, calls him brother when they part).

He and the remainder of the Amis go to the kitchen on instinct when they take themselves back to Olympus and sure enough, everyone is amassed there. Bossuet is hugging Joly from behind, who tirelessly checks and rechecks a fact he already knows, pressing two fingers against Grantaire's shallow wrist. Jehan is sitting at Grantaire's feet with his face in his hands; Courfeyrac hugs him and strokes his hair and looks over the top of his head at Joly, his expression distraught.

They all know what he's going to say but they're quiet out of respect, and they move for Enjolras, allowing him space to see his friend (and that is all he can call him, even now; not boyfriend, for their relationship had just been beginning and he hated that trivial term anyway; not lover, because Enjolras had thoughtlessly burned that bridge with his temper).

He touches Grantaire's face and his skin is colder than it should be and Enjolras knows just like everybody else but nobody will _say_ it.

Combeferre steps up beside him and rests a hand lightly on Enjolras' shoulder, says quietly, "He's dead, Enjolras."

It was never real before but the words have given it shape; they've made this idea realistic, and Enjolras hates fiercely in that moment, hates that Combeferre had the strength to tell him, hates that anyone had to tell him at all, hates that he'd had Grantaire for centuries and he'd wasted every chance afforded him.

He sits down in one of the chairs that have been pushed away from the table and lays his hands limply in his lap and the Amis look at each other, unsure how to help him, unsure if he even wants them to.

"No," he says softly. Courfeyrac and Combeferre look at each other.

"Enjolras," the latter begins, but he's cut off when Enjolras says stronger, louder, " _No_."

He stands up. "I will go to Valjean and speak with him; he will not allow Grantaire to stay in the Underworld." All of them know that Javert made him swear years ago that he would not ask for another soul but they also know Apollo; he is the burning god, and men bow to his fury.

He strides into the hallway and the Amis follow, none of them daring to look at Grantaire as they pass. His death was not peaceful and he is splattered with blood, marked with it like he'd painted some great portrait. Had this been any other man, Jehan might have remarked that it was well he died like this, as colorful as he'd been in life.

**Author's Note:**

> okay so this one is shorter because I really wanted to end it here and save all the cool shit for the other chapter? gosh I don't know I'm sorry  
> btw next chapter is going up as soon as I can edit the HTML it should be within like fifteen minutes so be cool no cliffhangers
> 
> title means 'better late than never' which I personally thought was super sad but who really knows
> 
> sorry that this revolution is so ridiculous I needed drama (I swear I'm not making some blatant remark about police brutality or anything, forgive me)
> 
> uh should be all tumblr is idfaciendumest, kisses to anybody who reads this I love you all


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